Page 29 of Praising the Pitcher

Gigi’s eyes grow wide. “Stop!” she screams, but his arm never moves.

Looking down at his hand holding the fabric, I swallow back the urge to grab onto his arm and twist until I feel it break.

“Get your fucking hand off me,” I growl lowly, my chest rising and falling rapidly with every breath I take in effort to control myself.

Not right away, but a few seconds later, he drops his hand down, and I throw my arm around Gigi, quickly leading her the hell away from this situation and ushering her into the passenger side of my truck. I want to get the hell out of here, but not before I tell Sasha to make sure she leaves as well. I don’t think Gigi’s dad would hurt someone, but right now, he’s being insane. I want to make sure she’s safe before we leave this parking lot.

“You good?” I call to her as she opens her door, Cal still standing in front of his own vehicle. He’s tall—at least six-two, I’d say. His salt-and-pepper hair blows in the breeze as he remains unwavering, and I don’t know if he’s just hoping Gigi will change her mind or trying to intimidate us all.

Her eyes move to him, but eventually, she looks at me and nods faintly. “Yeah, I think so,” she whispers.

“Good,” I say. “Get out of here.”

She doesn’t say anything back, but she looks toward my truck at Gigi once more before she climbs behind the wheel and closes her door. Not long after, she’s turning out of the parking lot, and I’m finally climbing into the driver’s seat, ready to take Gigi wherever the hell she wants to go.

Her dad’s eyes don’t move from my truck—not even when we’re down the road. And when she’s shivering as we drive away, I don’t know if it’s the cold-ass weather or the fear of her own dad that has her so chilled. All I know is, she could have called anyone today …

But she called me.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, because wherever she’d like to be to make this day a little better, I’ll drive her there. “The Nest? The field?” I glance at her. “My dorm. Just name the place and I’ll take you.”

She shifts around slightly in the seat, her hands fidgeting nervously. I don’t know where I expect her to say because I’ve never seen her in this state before. Her own dad just made her feel worthless. Her own fucking father just drove her to hide inside a restaurant—talking to a stranger and calling me, a guy she doesn’t even know that well.

“Would it be okay if we went to your place?” she asks. “It’s okay if not … I just⁠—”

“Smoke, of course that’s fine,” I say, stopping her. “Have you eaten since this morning?”

“No,” she utters, shaking her head.

“Well, that smoothie bowl is long gone,” I say, matter-of-factly. “How about we get some pizza and take it to my dorm?”

She cringes. “How about I get a salad, and you get a pizza?”

I should have expected her to say that. I think the motherfucker who’s supposed to be her parent has convinced her if she eats anything the least bit unhealthy, she’s kissing her chance of playing softball goodbye. That’s not just something that can be changed from her brain’s chemistry overnight.

It’ll take time.

“Okay, fine,” I say, agreeing. “But I’m going to get a large. That way, you can have some if you decide you want to.” I wink. “And trust me, when you see my concoction, you’ll want to.”

She looks a little concerned, but surprisingly, shrugs. “Okay. Deal.”

Her dad may have provided her with all the best training and opportunities money could buy, but she’s missing one thing she’ll need to keep going without him constantly pushing her to an unhealthy limit.

She needs to believe in herself. She needs to trust herself—and that motherfucker has made that impossible.

I have one goal right now though, which is to help Gigi find her confidence because if anyone deserves to feel good about herself, it’s her.

TWELVE

GIGI

“I still think it’s weird,” I say, tossing my empty salad container in the trash bin. “It’s pineapple and pepperoni …” I add, looking down at the box before I sit on the edge of his bed. “I mean, I haven’t lived under a rock. I’ve heard of Hawaiian pizza before, but not pepperoni and pineapple.”

“And you’re missing out,” Noah says, plopping down onto his love seat.

“Why did you even think to order that?” I ask, genuinely intrigued. Most of my life, meals have been chosen for me, so I never had the chance to make a weird food selection. But with him, he made the choice to randomly change the traditional Hawaiian.

“Well, my mom loves Hawaiian pizza, and sometimes, I’d take a piece of hers when I was a kid, but I hate ham, so I’d peel the ham off. It was a pain in the ass, so I’d end up just doing it for one slice and then eating pepperoni pizza.” He grins, looking at me like he’s some sort of genius. “One day, I thought to myself … I love pineapple, and I love pepperoni—especially little crispy ones like this,” he says, pointing to the slice of pizza. “So I decided to combine the two for the ultimate concoction. Turns out, it’s a pretty popular pizza and I actually didn’t invent it at all.”